


The Rain It Fell, The Story Went On

by crazybeagle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Broken Bones, Episode: s02e01 In My Time of Dying, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Psychological Trauma, Surgery, blood transfusion, pneumothorax
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:41:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazybeagle/pseuds/crazybeagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One obnoxious Big Bad with some unexpected tricks up its sleeve equals one hunt gone pretty far south for the Winchesters. They're both badly hurt, but Dean's got it decidedly worse this time around, and feeling pretty belligerent about it. Because hospitals? Not exactly his thing. Not after the last time. Set after "In My Time of Dying," written for a "lonely prompt" for the hoodietime (Dean-centric hurt/comfort) community over at Livejournal: Sam, Dean, gen, any season. Sam and Dean are both injured enough to land themselves in the hospital for a couple days. They end up sharing a hospital room. Dean hates being in the hospital, and Sam has to reassure him. <br/>Title from "Salina" by the Avett Brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Dean opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a swirling cloud of clichéd stars and birdies. He wondered how hard he must've hit his head. Upon closer reflection, however, he realized it felt less like he'd hit his head and more like he'd hit his _everything._  
  
Awesome.  
  
When his eyes finally did manage to focus, which took awhile, he saw a dark canopy of leaves overhead, bits of cloudy night sky peeking through it. Dazed, he blinked a few times and clenched his fists around the dry leaves on the ground, waiting for the world to stop spinning around him. Come to think of it, it'd be pretty nice to just lie here for awhile, really.  
  
Except…  
  
Oh, right.  
  
Black Dog.  
  
Whoop de freakin' doo.  
  
Not too keen on getting pounced on and getting his throat ripped out by an evil three-headed mutt, he tried to prop himself up on one elbow.  
…Only to be floored again by an explosion of pain coming from his left side, somewhere between his armpit and his sternum. The closest comparison he could come up with for the feeling was as if somebody had dropped a bowling ball on his ribcage. His eyes watered, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming.  
   
What the hell…  
  
What even happened, anyway?  
   
And where was Sam?  
   
He couldn't think. Everything was starting to go all fuzzy again.  
   
No, no, no…come on…  
  
Focus. Think. Black Dog. Sam.  
  
He tried to take a steadying breath, but his eyes squeezed shut of their own accord at the resulting sensation of his lungs being squeezed together and of a stupid friggin' _huge_ hole puncher taking a chunk out of his side.  
  
He pounded desperately at the ground with a fist, his vision whiting out.  
  
"Dean!"  
  
He managed to raise a hand. "Righ' here…" he muttered through gritted teeth, trying to make his eyes focus long enough to try to see where Sam's voice was coming from.  
  
"Dean?" And then something big and dark entered his line of vision, crouching down next to him. He felt a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Yeah," Dean managed to croak. "Hey there, S'mmy…"  
  
A flashlight clicked on, and Sam's face swam into view, looking alarmed, eyes automatically scanning him for injury.  
   
"H-hey, stop shinin' that thing in m'eyes…" Dean grumbled.  
   
Sam ignored him. "What happened?" his voice was urgent.  
  
Dean's eyes rolled back up to the leaves hanging above him, interspersed with patches of cloudly sky. "Dunno…" he said breathlessly. "M'best guess though? It was me versus the tree and the tree won…" He felt a stupid grin spreading across his face.  
   
"Yeah, that's what I thought." The light flashed on the tree trunk. "Damn."  
  
"D'dya kill the—"  
  
"Yeah." He jabbed a finger behind him, at where the corpse of a three headed Black Dog presumably lay. "Got up close and I stabbed it."  
Despite the suckiness of the situation, he felt a swell of pride at that. "Way t'go Sammy." He raised a shaky fist for a fist bump, but Sam didn't oblige him, one hand still holding the flashlight. Which was weird. Sam didn't like that sort of thing, but as long as nobody was around, he usually didn't care too much. But then he remembered—"Wait a sec…" He squinted past the glare of the flashlight, trying to see Sam's other arm. Sam was holding it bent against his chest, the fabric torn, dark, and wet. And then Dean remembered the reason he'd been thrown against the tree in the first place… "Well next time, Sammy, see if you find some other way of getting close up than getting your arm mauled, 'kay? 'Cause I pretty much sucked as the rescue-Sam-brigade, didn't I?" Now he remembered how he'd gotten thrown into the tree—Sam had been taken by surprise and knocked down by the Black Dog, and the leftmost of the three heads ( _three_ freaking _heads_ ) had gotten its teeth around his arm. Dean had ineffectually tried to distract the thing and make it let Sam go by coming at its leftmost head and firing a shotgun, but apparently it hadn't done much good, sinking into the shoulder and only managing to make two out of the three heads really angry. The third head, apparently oblivious, had just kept on using his brother as a giant chew toy. He remembered seeing the whole creature turning and bounding towards him, the third head dragging Sam along with it. He shuddered at the memory of the third head's bloody teeth, and even in the dark, looking at Sam's sodden arm now, Dean was surprised Sam had had the presence of mind to even try to stab the thing.  
  
He tried to prop himself up, trying not to feel faint at the grinding sensation coming from his ribs. "'S it broken?"  
  
Sam pushed him lightly back down, which wasn't hard considering Dean had only made it a few inches off the ground. "Yeah, probably. But it's just my arm. It's not our biggest problem right now, okay?"  
  
Dean frowned. "It almost ripped your arm off… If ya bleed out 's a pretty damn big problem."  
   
Sam rolled his eyes. "Just do me a favor, shut up and lie still for a second, okay?" Dean didn't want to admit how easy it was to do just that right now. "What hurts?"  
   
"'re you kidding?" he drawled. "I feel great. Fan-flipping-tastic."

"Did you hit your head?"  
  
"Think I hit m' everything, Sam…"

"Yes or no?" he snapped.  
  
"Not sure… hey, save the interrogation for later, get pressure on your arm first." Yes, he did want to make sure Sam didn't bleed to death, but it was also because it just _hurt_ to talk, and it was getting increasingly hard to catch his breath. He felt like he was getting stomped on with every inhalation.  
  
"Can you stand up?" Sam asked, an eyebrow raised.  
  
"Don't think so…" he admitted.

"Then no, we can't save it for later," Sam said dryly. "Where are you hurt?" he repeated, insistent.

Well, he figured, might as well not sugar coat it. Not when he hurt like shit—because at this point, he couldn't deny that there was something seriously wrong— and when Sam was just going to be pushy and obnoxious and all frantic anyway. It was almost endearing how much Sam sucked at the whole keeping-an-injured-person-calm thing, because he was always so grim and panicky about it. Not like Dad; Dad could've probably convinced somebody on their deathbed that they just had a head cold, which came in handy when they were dealing with injured and terrified victims. It was something that Dean had always tried to emulate, specifically with Sam, who wasn't known for being particularly mellow when he was hurt or sick. But even if Sam had an abysmal bedside manner, what he lacked there he made up for in an abundance of genuine concern.  
  
"Ribs," Dean told him, barely able to gesture at them. "Left side."  
  
"Broken?"  
  
He nodded tightly. "Think so."  
  
"I'm gonna take a look, alright?"  
  
It took Sam awhile to get the flashlight situated where he could hold it under the armpit of his good arm so he could both see what he was doing and get to the injury. Dean had planned making a wheedling comment about getting fresh when Sam opened his jacket and flannel and then lifted up his t-shirt, but it hurt too bad for anything to come out of his mouth other than a sharp gasp.  
"Crap," he muttered.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well for starters, it's basically the start of one gigantic bruise all through here." He waved a hand over pretty much the entire left side of Dean's ribcage.  
  
"Great." He paused. "Now don't touch it."  
  
Sam sighed, frustrated. "Dean, if you've got broken ribs—"  
  
" _Don't_ touch it, Sam," he growled.  
  
But of course, Sam did anyway.  
  
Dean hissed. "Augh…fuck you, Sam—"  
  
"Shut up," Sam said shortly, and as he prodded at the skin around Dean's ribs and sternum, Dean had to try not to pass out. After a second, he said, "Yeah, it's looking like you got some broken r—" his words suddenly died, and he bent over to get a closer look, brow furrowed. Dean could see splatters of thick, inky blood from the Black Dog on Sam's face and in his hair. "Wait a second," he whispered. "Shit…"  
  
" _What_?" Dean snapped.  
  
Sam shushed him.  
  
Oh yeah, there he went again with that delightful bedside manner…  
  
Sam must've sensed Dean's irritation, and his expression softened. "Look, I'm sorry. Just _please_ be quiet for a second, okay? Don't talk. There's a good reason, I promise."  
  
Dean raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. _Nothing_ was easier anyway.  
  
And then Sam was, very slowly, uncurling his right arm away from his chest and resting it on the other side of Dean's chest, on top of all the nice non-broken ribs. His good hand was splayed out over the broken ones. ( _Ow._ ) On his non-injured side, Dean could feel that Sam's fingers were slippery with blood, and his stomach churned.  
  
"Wha—"  
  
"Shut _up_ ," Sam repeated for a third time. "Now I need you to breathe in, okay?"  
  
 _No_ , Dean mouthed, shaking his head a little. He was going to black out if he couldn't subsist on the minimum amount of necessary oxygen right now.  
  
"Dean, don't fight me on this. Please." He sounded desperate. "All you gotta do is breathe."  
  
So Dean breathed. And _owsonuvabitchowww…._ And there were those stars and birdies again.

"Do it again."  
  
 _Sammy, you really suck, you know that?_  
  
But he did it again.

Sam took his hands off a second later and then swore, colorfully, under his breath.  
  
Dean let out a wheezy laugh. "'M impressed. Didn' know y'knew that word, Sammy…"  
  
"Shh." Sam looked shaken.  
  
"Not 'till y'tell me why you looked freaked to hell right now."

"Can you taste blood or anything?"  
  
"No…"  
  
"Good."  
  
"Sam, what's wrong?"

 Sam said nothing, but _freaked-to-hell_ was still written all over his face as he looked down at Dean.  
  
"Dude. What is it?"  
  
Sam sighed. "Do you know what a flail chest is?"  
  
Dean blinked. "Maybe…" The term sounded really familiar and he felt like he _should_ know, but it sure didn't sound like anything good. Anything with the word _flail_ in it, really. "Do I really wanna know?" Even if it was probably better if he told him, so he could help Sam figure out how to deal with whatever it was.  
  
"Maybe not."  
  
"Well…how d' _you_ know what it is, then?"  
  
"'Cause Jess was pre-med."  
  
"Yeah, y-you said..."  
  
"Anyway, she worked as an intern for an EMT for awhile. She used to tell me about the patients sometimes, 'cause certain cases…uh, bothered her."  
  
Lightheaded, Dean let his eyes roll back up towards the leaves. He thought he might hear thunder in the distance and hoped to God it was just heat lightning. _Yeah, because a storm is just what we need right now._ And never mind that Black Dogs tended to be attracted to storms.  
"An' this case with, what was it, flail chest? How'd that one turn out?"  
  
"Uh, the guy died in the ambulance."  
  
Oh. Well that boded well, didn't it.  
   
"Great," Dean muttered. "Well you're gonna have to tell me now, huh?"  
  
Sam looked away. "A flail chest is when you break a bunch of ribs that are all right next to each other enough so that that entire part of your ribcage—like, lungs and everything—move differently than everything else. You breathe in, that part pops out, you breathe out, that part pops itself in."

 Truth be told, Dean's first reaction was _aw, gross_. After that the _Oh my god_ kicked in. "So…that's what's goin' on, huh?"  
  
"Yeah, looks like." He pointed at the giant bruise. "'Cause this part's doing its own thing whenever you breathe."  
  
"Oh…" Dean said, feeling sick at the thought. "Well shit."

 Sam nodded. "Yeah."  
  
"Well, uh…" Dean floundered for words. "How's your arm?"  
  
Sam let out an incredulous laugh. It sounded a bit manic.  
  
"Really, dude…"

Sam glanced down at it and shrugged. "I'll live." But Dean didn't miss how pale he looked, even in the flashlight, and judging by how wet his hand had felt against Dean's chest, he'd be willing to bet Sam was still bleeding, a lot.

 "Seriously. Pressure."  
  
Sam shrugged. "We don't have anything out here."  
  
"Well how close're we to the car again?" Not terribly far, he knew, because in order for Black Dogs to be a problem, there had to be people around, and where there were people, there were roads. And in their case, a neat little nature path made of gravel and packed dirt as well.  
  
"Two miles out, maybe? Three?"  
  
"'S it blocked off?"  
  
"Yeah, but just by that road barrier. It's got a lock and chain. I could pick the lock…" He sounded dubious.  
  
"But? 'M sensin' a _but_ here."

 " _But,_ " Sam said firmly, "we're not taking the car."  
  
"What d'you mean _we're not taking—_ " And then Dean got it. "No," he said immediately.  
  
"Dean—"  
  
"Uh-uh. No way."  
  
Sam shook his head, resolute. "Dean, you are in no shape to be calling the shots right now. You need a hospital."  
  
A hospital.  
  
Dean's already shallow breathing involuntarily grew shallower. "Can't we just…deal with it?"

 "Ourselves? No."  
  
"Why?" Fear was gnawing at his stomach. He knew Sam probably wasn't wrong, but _still_ ….they'd dealt with nastier injuries themselves. …Right? "I can patch your arm up for you, we'll get you x-rays tomorrow—"  
   
"Really."  
  
"Yeah—"  
  
"Dean, you can't even sit up."  
  
"I can 'f you help me," he said through gritted teeth. Actually, the prospect of sitting up made him ill, but anything was better than…that.  
   
"Come on, man… Busted ribs. Flail-whatever or no, there's nothin' punctured or anything, so we bind it up and I jus' stay in bed a few days, and it'll work itself out. We've had worse—"  
  
" _No_ ," Sam snapped, angry now. "Look, we can't fuck around with something like this. Weren't you listening? A flail chest'll probably kill you if you let it go, suffocate you. I mean it. Don't be an idiot."

 But he looked just as terrified as he did mad, so Dean had to relent. And Sam was right, anyway—he really couldn't be the one calling the shots right now.  
  
"Besides," Sam muttered tiredly. "Don't think I should drive right now, anyway."  
  
Dean glanced at his arm. "You dizzy?"  
  
Sam nodded. "Sort of, yeah."  
  
He sighed, or as much as he could manage to without setting off his ribs. "Crap. We gotta get it looked at, huh?"  
  
Sam grimaced and shrugged with the shoulder of his good arm. "Still bleeding, so…"

 Reluctantly, Dean nodded. "Okay, yeah. You should call." If Sam needed a hospital, then it wasn't negotiable anymore.  
  
"Problem." Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "No reception here. Think I gotta go head back toward the road."  
  
"Great."  
  
"Okay, uh…" Sam stood up and ran a hand through his hair. "Alright. Okay, I'm gonna go walk a little ways back up the road, call and then come back, okay? Be back in a few minutes, and please, _please_ try to stay awake, okay?"  
  
Dean frowned. "'Kay. Don't faceplant on the road either."  
  
Sam grinned faintly. "No guarantees."  
  
" _Sam_."  
  
"Kidding." He looked back down at Dean, and his smile faded. "I know it sucks, but you gotta keep breathing, okay? Don't fall asleep." He walked over to something on the ground nearby, the flashlight still wedged under one arm, picked it up, and set it down next to Dean. It was Dean's gun. "Here. In case Sparky over there has any friends."  
  
It wasn't until a minute or so later, when Sam had gone, taking the flashlight with him, that Dean realized exactly how difficult a promise _don't fall asleep_ was going to be. Talking alone had done a number on him, and the sensation of being socked repeatedly in the chest had only escalated with every minute. His head was heavy, and the rest of him felt weirdly tingly as he struggled to take in air. It was getting harder to concentrate, even despite his very present fear that Sam _would_ faceplant. He blinked rapidly, trying to snap himself out of it, focusing on anything he could, which was a bit hard now that he was lying in almost total darkness—the now persistent rumbling of thunder, the musty odor of a newly dead Black Dog—speaking of, how were they gonna explain _that_ to the medics?—and then one raindrop hitting his forehead…two…  
  
A sudden explosion of agony and _OWsweetmotherofWHATTHEFRIGGINHELL_ in his chest…  
  
After that, he didn't remember a thing.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

 After awhile, he was vaguely aware of several things happening at once.

  
But he didn't wake up, not really. _Waking up_ was the wrong term for it.  
  
It was more like things drifting in and out of his mind, sounds and sights and sensations, none of it making a ton of sense. If it wasn't for the throbbing in his ribs, he'd have thought he was just dreaming it all.  
  
First it was the rain. Wet, and cold, sickening when it drummed against his chest.  
  
Then it was Sam. Yelling something at him, shaking his arm. He sounded scared. Dean tried to answer, but he was just so tired…  
  
And then the sound of sirens. Red and blue lights, he knew that, even though he never remembered opening his eyes to look.  
  
And, at some point, something being shoved over his face, down his throat. It burned the whole way down. He couldn't even gag. First it was even harder to breathe, then weirdly easier.  
  
Pressure constricting his arm, then something sharp piercing the crook of his elbow.  
  
Being lifted off the ground and onto something hard. The pain of that was just about unbearable, and he remembered swatting at the hands moving him to get them to leave him the fuck alone, but it didn't do any good.  
  
Car doors slamming.  
  
More lights. More sirens.  
  
Voices, low and businesslike.  
  
And where the _hell_ did Sam go?  
  
It was only quite awhile later that he'd look back and realize that all these things actually made sense.  
  
EMTs. Right.  
  
And Sam would've had an ambulance of his own.  
  
But he was out cold again before he had the time to figure any of that out.  
  
What may as well have been months or years later for all he knew, he became vaguely aware of things once again.  
  
It was cold, but he was dry, lying on something soft now.  
  
He still couldn't close his mouth. The plastic irritated his throat.  
  
Everything smelled like rubbing alcohol.  
  
Something was beeping.  
  
More voices, muted and distant now.  
  
Pain, still potent, but nearly as muted and distant the voices.  
  
Added to it, a new, very bizarre tightness on that side of his chest, just under his armpit.  
  
And then, the even more bizarre feeling of a totally involuntary _in…out…in…out…in…_  
  
And that's when he realized that air was being pumped _through_ him, and he had no say in it.  
  
 _Like a bad scifi movie,_ he thought hazily, and he wasn't sure whether or not to laugh or be scared shitless.  
  
He didn't have to open his eyes to know the obvious: they'd made it to the hospital, he was doped up to the gills with a freaking _machine_ breathing for him, and Sam was—  
  
Sam was _where?_  
  
He forced his eyes open.  
  
They were itchy and gritty, and he had to blink a few times before anything came into focus.  
  
The intrusive brightness of fluorescent lights immediately assaulted his eyes.  
  
Yup, definitely the hospital.  
  
And even though he _knew_ that, and it shouldn't surprise him in the least, that was right about when panic set in.  
  
And not because he had a tube down his throat, or that his lungs wouldn't work right, or that he was alone, or even that he had no idea where Sam was, though that certainly wasn't helping things.  
  
No, it was the fact that last time he'd woken up in the hospital, after nearly being gutted by _the_ demon and then hit by a truck, and _then_ having his disembodied spirit chased up the wall by a Reaper (or according to Sam anyway), Dad had dropped dead on the floor of his room.  
  
Not even two months ago.  
  
And he had a funny feeling he knew why.  
  
He couldn't do this, couldn't be here, not again. Not right after.  
  
The beeping sped up. He tried to take a breath, but the tubes wouldn't let him. An awful rattling sound came out when he tried. Another jarring _beep-beep-beep_ now joined the first, louder and more urgent. Dean's eyes watered, and he reached up to try to rip the stupid tubes out so he could _breathe._  
  
 _And there was Dad, dead on the floor all over again…_  
  
 _Shit, pull yourself together…_  
  
Before he could even wrap his trembling fingers around the tube sticking out in front of his face from what was apparently a big plastic face mask over his mouth and nose, a small woman in blue scrubs had rushed into the room. She took one look at him, eyes going big, and then in a flash she was by the bed, grabbing his hand and pulling it away from the mask.  
  
"Sir," she said in a voice that was firm but just as tiny as she was, "Don't touch that. You need it to breathe, do you understand?" She didn't let go of his hand, but looked at him, as though waiting for some indication that he understood. Dean reached for it a second time, and she seized his hand in both of hers, forcing it down with probably all the force that her noodly little arms possessed. " _Don't_ touch it, sir," she repeated. Dean glared at her mutinously over the plastic mask, and she looked a little frightened. She was a twiggy, nervous-looking woman, blonde, probably in her thirties and maybe pretty if you overlooked her slightly protuberant eyes. Her nametag designated her as a "Jodie" something-or-other….he couldn't pronounce her Scandinavian-looking last name if he tried. If he hadn't been alone and drugged up and in pain and totally freaked, he'd feel kind of bad for scaring her.  
  
She gulped, but didn't let go of either of his hands. "Now," she said, her voice a bit shaky. "You need to relax, okay?"  
  
He knew he couldn't talk, but he tried anyway, hoping the strangled sound that came out would make her take the hint.  
  
"Please don't talk."  
  
 _Have it your way, then._ He wrenched his hands out of hers and reached for the mask.  
  
"Stop!" she grabbed him again, looking a bit like she was going to cry. "Please don't. What do you want?"  
  
He rolled his eyes. _Why_ somebody like this working in an ER at all was beyond him. She looked like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.And then he had an idea. He pointed at himself with his right arm, having found when going for the mask that it hurt a hell of a lot to lift his other arm, and then mimed holding a pencil and writing something on an imaginary paper on his lap. Jodie blinked, and then seemed to get it when he pointed at the pen that was sticking out of Jodie's front pocket.

"Oh," she said, sounding slightly suspicious and reaching up with one hand to touch the pen. "You want to write something?"  
Dean raised an eyebrow. _No shit, Sherlock._

"I'd have to check with your doctor first…" she began.  
  
"Check what?" said a voice abruptly from the doorway. An elderly man stepped into the room, rather severe-looking with a silvery crew cut, wearing a lab coat.  
  
Jodie looked uncomfortable, realizing she still had ahold of Dean's hands. "He wants to write something down. He was trying to take the mask off because he wants to talk."  
  
"I see." The doctor looked down at the clipboard he was holding. "Doctor Rodney Walsh, Black River Memorial Hospital, by the way. I'm your primary. So…Dean Singer, age 27, of Sioux Falls, South Dakota? Am I correct?"  
  
Well, three guesses where they were headed once all this was over with.  
  
Dean nodded.  
  
And—thank God—that meant that whatever shape Sam was in, he'd been awake enough to tell them that much.  
  
The doctor nodded, and continued his rambling. "Admitted 3AM this morning, and being treated for a flail chest caused by blunt force trauma, as I understand. What we've got here is a lateral flail segment comprised of the third, fourth, fifth and sixth ribs on the right side and a cracked sternum. When you arrived you were showing symptoms of a pneumothorax, or collapsed lung. You were unconscious then."  
  
Dean nodded again, impatiently, and mimed writing once more. The doctor frowned, then turned over the paper on his clipboard so that the blank side faced up and set it on Dean's lap, pulled a pen from his pocket, and placed it in Dean's hand. "Alright, as long as you don't mind me asking you a few questions of my own when you've finished. I'll have a dry erase board brought for you as well."His voice was blunt, no-nonsense.  
  
Dean struggled to hold onto the pen, the drugs making his hand shake horribly. Eventually he managed to scrawl,  
  
 _ **Where's Sam?**_  
  
The doctor leaned over to read the message.  
  
"Your brother, you mean?"  
  
Dean nodded.  
  
"He's been moved to a multi-patient room in the ICU." The doctor's voice was a bit too impersonal for Dean's tastes. Not that he liked gushy touchy-feely shit either when it came to doctors, but this was Sam he was talking about.  
  
Dean gave him a questioning look, and Walsh proceeded to explain, "The lacerations to Sam's right arm were severe enough that he was suffering from a moderate amount of blood loss by the time he arrived here, so we administered a blood transfusion—"  
  
Dean winced.  
  
"—to which he reacted poorly."  
  
Dean immediately scooped up the pen again and wrote,  
  
 _ **HOW poorly**_  
  
He knew he should've expected that, but still…  
  
The doctor paused. "It's…an unusual case. He's currently running a hundred and one degree fever and showing symptoms of fatigue and exhaustion. Normally I'd chalk it up to a ferbile nonhemylotic reaction, which is generally not a serious condition, but the results of the blood tests came back…rather unusual in regard to his blood's chemistry. We're monitoring him while we run some further tests."  
  
Dean's stomach dropped. This wasn't a new thing; virtually the exact same thing had happened when Sam was 16, after a mishap during a poltergeist hunt. Sam had needed a transfusion thanks to having been pushed through a window, and had inexplicably felt like shit for days afterward. The doctors had all scratched their heads when they'd tested his blood after the transfusion—before, it had seemed perfectly normal, but afterwards, the chemical levels were completely out of whack, many of them spiking so high or so low that it shouldn't have been possible for a person to survive it, even though Sam very clearly was. It was weeks before they would discharge him, and after every test they could think of, still baffled and claiming that either there had been several consecutive equipment flukes or else there was an unknown but benign chemical in the blood that was throwing the machines off. Apparently not unheard of, but rare. They'd referred him to a specialist a state over, but for reasons that Dean had never been able to figure out, Dad had never taken him. It had really bothered Dean, because for all Dad's _rub-some-dirt-in-it_ mentality, he never fucked around with serious medical issues. He'd had half a mind to take Sam himself, but Sam, then sick of hospitals, had asked Dean not to. Sam had never needed a transfusion since, and all of his subsequent bloodwork at normal doctors' appointments had come back normal, so up until now it hadn't been an issue, really. But it was one additional reason they tended to avoid hospitals if they could help it.  
  
"I understand this has happened before, yes?" The doctor said, looking at Dean intently. Dean nodded. "Sam explained to us afterwards," Walsh continued, sounding slightly more fascinated than concerned. "I believe he may have tried to mention it to our emergency team beforehand, but he was delirious at the time and they were unable to determine a valid reason why they shouldn't, so they opted to go ahead with the transfusion."  
  
At that, Dean felt a rather irrational surge of anger. Yes, Sam probably had needed a transfusion, but the fact that nobody listened to him while he was being pumped full of what he probably saw as poison made Dean's own blood boil. _Delirious my ass…_ And he felt worse at the fact that Sam had had to face it on his own.  
  
 _ **Is he awake**_  
  
"He is. He's asked about you. Several times, in fact." Walsh looked mildly annoyed; Jodie, who had been listening to the whole discussion with meek, wide eyes, was unable to hide an amused grin. A-ha, so she was Sammy's nurse then, too.  
  
 _ **Can I see him**_  
  
"We'll get to that. But if you don't mind, I need to ask you a few questions first—"  
  
 _ **Can I see him**_  
  
Walsh's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Singer, I really need you to cooperate here—"  
  
Dean just underlined the words three more times. Walsh did not look amused. Obviously this was a man who was used to being listened to.  
  
Well tough.  
  
Walsh's eyes narrowed. Dean met his gaze defiantly.  
  
"Obviously we're not understanding each other, _Mr._  Singer," Walsh said, drawing out the title as though  
Dean didn't merit being called a "Mr." anything. "This is a life-threatening condition you're facing here, and seeing as you and your brother were found trespassing on government-owned property—"  
Dean made a derisive sound into the oxygen mask. Walsh ignored him.  
  
"—You would do well to cooperate in this instance."  
  
Dean glowered at him.  
  
 _ **Is that a threat**_  
  
"Merely an observation," the doctor said cooly. "Now let me do my job, Mr. Singer. Scale of 1 to 10, how much—"  
  
 _ **7ish.**_    
  
He looked miffed at being interrupted, even by a written comment. "Now you were thrown into a tree, yes?"  
  
Dean nodded.

"By _what_?"

Dean paused for a second, wondering if any of the EMT's had described to Walsh exactly what they must've seen.

_**A bear or something, I don't know okay. Now can I see Sam** _   


"Did you attempt to move yourself at all after you'd fallen?"  
  
He shook his head.

"And you weren't coughing up any blood or fluids or any type afterwards?"

He shook his head again, and then wrote,

_**Take the tube out can't breathe** _

"Maybe not, but you certainly can't breathe without it, either, Mr. Singer. A flail chest requires positive pressure ventilation to maintain the proper chest wall movement during recovery. That's why you have a chest tube as well," he said, pointing at Dean's side, at the source of that weird pressure that had been coming from just under his armpit. "You can't see it with the mask on, but there's a tube sticking out there. That's how we fixed the lung collapse and it's staying there for continuous pressure relief and fluid drainage."

 _Fluid?_ Dean automatically reached for the spot, forgetting momentarily about the busted ribs, and nearly passing out when his fingers made contact with bare skin—apparently they'd left his chest uncovered— before the doctor pushed his hand away. "You don't want to do that, trust me."

_Oh, so now you tell me…_

"So the mask stays on until you're stable enough without it. And I don't appreciate you giving the nurses trouble over it. As it stands, on positive pressure alone, you're facing several weeks at least…"

 _Weeks?_ The beeping sped up again.

He couldn't do that, he _couldn't_ , he had to get the hell out of here…

Walsh paused and glanced at the vitals monitor for a moment before continuing.

"…and within the next hour we're going to see about getting you another morphine injection for the epidural—"

Ugh. He didn't know all that much about epidurals, except that the word pregnant chicks to mind. Unless he was wrong, that meant he had a tube sticking somewhere out of his back right now in addition to every-frickin'-thing else….

"-But until you're more stable we can't begin to discuss other treatment options. Namely, surgery."  
Fear morphed into anger. He could hardly process the word _surgery_ right now, but in the meantime—

_**Then how am I gonna eat and talk and breathe** _

_(…you asshole?)_

"You're not," Walsh said dryly. "Mr. Singer, I don't think you're appreciating the gravity of your situation. Let me make this perfectly clear. There is a thirty-five percent mortality rate for severe flail chest patients. That's more than _one in three,_ Mr. Singer."

Dean blinked once, stunned.

_Oh._

Well…

Fuck.  


"Do you understand, Mr. Singer?"  
  
Dean nodded slowly. The beeping only grew faster.

Walsh's expression softened a bit. "You should know we've notified your uncle. Mr. Robert Singer, is it? Sam spoke to him. We requested he come as soon as possible."

Rather grudgingly, Dean wrote a quick

_**Thank you** _

Walsh inclined his head slightly. Jodie looked between the two of them, her expression solemn.

_**When can I see Sam** _

Walsh sighed. "I _was_ getting to that. I understand that neither of you have any sort of medical insurance, is that correct?"

Dean paused, then reluctantly nodded. The drugs must've been wearing off a bit, because it was starting to hurt to nod, the tubes tugging at his raw throat at the small movement.

That was one cardinal rule that he and Sam followed—they were pretty damn good when it came to stuff like forgery and fraud, but until they learned how to make it completely airtight and a hundred percent foolproof, like Bobby could or Dad…had, they weren't going to push their luck in life threatening situations. It wasn't worth it, potentially compromising a life saving treatment.

But that meant, if they couldn't sneak out, landing Bobby with the hospital bills, seeing as they'd dragged him into it. Which was a kind of shitty thing to do, even though Dean knew he'd do it if they needed him to.

Oh, well. Dean would just owe him a car repair to pay it off. Or two.

Or ten.

…You know, as soon as he was actually able to pick up a freaking wrench.

There was thinly veiled disapproval in the doctor's eyes, but it didn't come through in his voice.

"Unfortunately, that means we're obliged to house you and Sam in multi-patient rooms. Now that you've woken up, we'll move you to one as well."

"You know, there's a double open," Jodie chimed in before she could stop herself, then flushed when Walsh turned to look at her. "You could just move Sam there, and then…" she gestured at Dean and trailed off lamely, quailing under his glare.  


"Yes," he said, eyebrows raised, turning back to Dean, "but be that as it may, in this instance like all others we have to follow protocol. If the room is filled before you're in a fit state to be moved, there's nothing we  
can do about that."  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. _Yeah, I bet._

Walsh ignored the gesture, and turned to leave. "I'm afraid I have to go check on a few other patients now—"  
 _Oh, yeah, I bet you're just so sorry to go…_

"—but Jodie's going to check the machines and your incision sites before she does her own rounds, and a nurse should be in shortly with another morphine injection. Give Jodie the clipboard and pen when she leaves."

When he was gone, Jodie came over, still timid but less so, and started fiddling with the machines that

Dean could see out of his peripheral vision. He didn't bother to look; just turning his head would pull at various tubes in various places. She pretended not to notice him watching her do whatever it was she was doing, but he must've looked both really confused and really, pathetically non-threatening (which was likely because he was getting sleepy again), because she eventually gave him an unsure, rather pitying smile.

"I know Dr. Walsh can be a little…um, blunt—"

Behind the mask, Dean snorted.

"—okay, maybe that's an understatement, yeah." she bent over to reach for something on the floor next to the bed. "Blunt, and uninformative." She held up a little white square box. It had a handle, as well as three transparent chambers. Two of the three were full of fluid; the fluid was the color of blood, if a bit thinner-looking. And the whole thing was attached with a tube—scratch that, _two_ tubes—that Dean realized were leading into the side of his chest. "This is where your chest tubes go," she explained, suddenly more comfortable apparently now that she was in her element, doing her job without her boss breathing down her neck. Either that, or if she was still scared of Dean, she must've figured that telling him what Walsh hadn't was a good way to appease him. "Like Dr. Walsh said, they're acting as a pressure relief system for you. Right now the air pressure in your lungs is all out of whack, so until it heals, you first of all need that mask so you can get the oxygen you need without doing any more damage by trying to breathe on your own. And then there's this," she held up the white box a little closer so he could see, "which helps with letting the air back out on the injured side, and makes sure the broken ribs or blood from them aren't going to press hard enough to collapse your lung again. It also takes care of anything extra that might be clogging up your lung; fluids mostly. A lot of what's in here is probably blood from the incision, and maybe a little from the intubation in your throat. And then there's condensation in here from the intubation, too, and we don't want that because it can cause pneumonia."

_Okay…weird, but okay…_

"And then there's the epidural…" she looked nervous again. "Which I actually need to check out, make sure it's clean and not at risk for infection or anything…if you'll let me help you turn over on your side, just a little…" She moved over to his left side, and—very cautiously, as though afraid he'd hit her or something if this hurt too much—helped him shift his weight to his right hip so he could turn enough so she could get to his back. He gripped onto the sidebars of the bed for dear life while she did whatever she was doing back there (oddly he couldn't feel a thing, despite the fact that he smelled rubbing alcohol), and even though she helped him lie back down only a few seconds later, he'd broken into a sweat. Even if he was enough of a douchebag to hit somebody like jumpy little Mouse-Lady here, he doubted he'd have the energy or presence of mind to do it at a time like this; he had no clue what she was so afraid of.  


She pulled off her gloves, apparently satisfied that all was well. "Back there's another tube, really really thin, basically going into your spine through your upper back. We inject morphine into the tube, and that mixes with your spinal fluid and it relieves the pain."  
  
Dean glanced at the IV he could see hanging above his head on one side, confused.

"We don't administer it through the IV because it's too strong that way," said, following his gaze to the hanging pouch. "It's a depressant; slows your breathing down and we don't want that. There are some non-narcotics in there, less strong but won't inhibit your airways. And it means you're a lot less likely to have a, erm, bad trip. You know, hallucinations and such." She shook her head. "That's why I personally don't like the stuff, it terrifies people who are hurt and delirious to begin with…not that it's all that bad, in certain cases when it's, um, necessary…" she added quickly and shuffled her feet a little.

Okay, either she wasn't supposed to be dishing her opinions about stuff like that, or she was taking it back because she'd remembered that Sam was on morphine right now. And he probably was, after being kibbles and bits for a Black Dog... Great. Hopefully Sam wasn't going to see a room full of evil sea serpents like he did at 6 when he'd gotten his tonsils out.

At any rate, Dean had a nasty feeling that he himself didn't need morphine to have what she called a "bad trip," and began to wonder just how many more times he was going to see Dad dead on the floor before he got out of this place…

"Anyway," she continued, "You got your other basic emergency stuff here, IV, heart monitor, clip monitor on your finger, uh…" she sounded embarrassed. "and a catheter."

Despite himself, he felt blood rushing to his face. Exactly _how_ much had Mouse Lady here seen of him? Not that she wasn't pretty okay for a nurse, but _still_ …. It was bad enough they wouldn't give him a shirt or a hospital gown or anything, especially when it was fucking _cold_ in here.

When she was checking the incisions for the chest tubes and close enough to him to read it, he wrote on the paper,

_**When am I moving to ICU** _

"Soon," she said, a tinge of sympathy in her tone now. "Definitely today. It's about 11AM right now, and honestly I'd be surprised if we didn't start getting you ready to be moved within the next hour or two. And he's technically right about protocol with filling the rooms up, but really, we've been pretty dead today." She shrugged. "We're pretty dead in general, really. The most, well, exciting thing that's happened around here lately are the string of victims of that bear or whatever it is out there in the national park, but…" she sighed. "You and your brother are in better shape than anybody else we've gotten. None of them lived very long."  
 _Yeah, and that's why we had no idea the thing was actually three for the price of one…_

_And that's why we got our asses kicked._

And speaking of…

_**How's Sam doing** _

Because it wasn't like Walsh actually told him.

"Okay," she said. "He was sleeping when I saw him last. That was about an hour ago. Last time he was up, he was hurting and a little out of it, but not bad…all things considered."

He gave her a steady look. _Go on._

She seemed to understand. "Well…we're still trying to determine the problem with his blood and where the fever came from, so we couldn't finish the transfusion like we wanted, which means his blood volume's a little lower than we'd like. That's part of it. And then, well, his arm's broken, and with the lacerations we can't cast it yet, but considering the fact that it was a bear attack, we're lucky we didn't have to operate. But barring any other complications from the transfusion, prognosis is good."

His eyes shut for a second. _Good._

"Whatever it is, let's hope it works itself out. Transfusion things often do." Her brow knit. "And those numbers on those results?" She shook her head. "Those can't be right. They can't be."

 _Obviously you don't know Sammy_ , he thought, bemused. _Welcome to my world, lady._

She gave him a sad smile. "Your brother's a sweet kid. He's done nothing but pester us with questions about you whenever he's been awake enough to tell which way is up."

So that's why Mouse-Lady was actually talking to him right now. Made sense. She liked Sam.

…Liked him? …Or _liked_ him?

Aw, gross… She looked 35 at least. Probably closer to 40. Or maybe that was in his head. But Sam was 23, for crying out loud…

That probably wasn't it at all, but there was no stopping that disturbing train of thought once it started.

His gaze drifted to Jodie's ring finger. There was a wedding band there.

Not like that meant much. They'd dealt with some pretty _eager_ nurses before in their time…

She didn't really seem the cougar type, though.

Not that that meant much either.

This was giving him a headache.

Stupid train of thought.  


"Somebody should be here in a few minutes with the epidural, okay? You can go back to sleep if you want. But please, _don't_ touch the mask. Really. I know it's uncomfortable, but you need it." She hardly sounded authoritative, but she definitely sounded sincere.  
  
Reluctantly, Dean nodded.

She looked up at the TV that was hanging suspended from the ceiling in one corner of the room, turned off. Walking up to it, she stood up on her tiptoes and turned it on. On the screen was a crime drama of some sort. "Hope this is okay," she said, looking up at the screen. "I can't find the remote, and I'm not sure how to change the channel otherwise…just thought it'd get too quiet in here. Like I said, we're slow."  
He nodded once. It was definitely better than last time he'd been in the hospital for anything really serious—he'd been stuck watching _7_ _th_ _Heaven_ reruns for most of the day because it'd literally been the only thing on. Add that to the fact that the doctor had barged in with news of terminal heart failure before Sam had even shown up, and _holy shit I'm gonna die_ and…yup, all things considered, _not_ a fun day.  
She took the paper Dean had been writing on back, and then was about to leave when she turned back to him, leaning in the doorway. "You know Walsh is just on edge around you because he thinks you're a criminal, right?" The words tumbled out quickly, as though she couldn't help herself. She flushed, but cleared her throat and continued. "Drug trafficking or something, because he figures you'd have to be really stupid to go out there what with all the recent bear attacks."

He rolled his eyes. _Right, because we were totally out in a national park at 2AM smuggling meth to squirrels…_

She squinted at him. "I don't think that you and your brother are criminals…We've treated criminals in here, and you don't seem the type."

She shook her head. "But if you don't mind me asking…what _were_ you doing out there? Your brother said something about you two going back to find his wallet that he dropped on the trail…but surely you'd heard about the bear attacks?" She looked apprehensive again. Okay, yeah, maybe she thought that _Sam_ didn't seem the type, but he wondered how long it was going to take before she stopped looking so damn skittish whenever she came to check on _him._

He tried to shrug. It hurt. Vaguely he wondered exactly how much hospital protocol was being broken in this joint….an underinformative douchebag of a doctor, an and toverinformative (and potentially creepy though probably not really but _still_ ) nurse…administering freaking treatment without patient consent…. But heck, small town. It wasn't like anybody was complaining.

"Guess you really aren't from around here, huh," Jodie asked after a moments' pause.

He shook his head.

"Well…" she sighed. "Welcome to Black River Falls, I guess."

 


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't know it was physically possible for an ER to be this quiet. But this one was. Silent, almost. He heard the TV—something about a forensics team poring over a very decomposed corpse, but he couldn't focus on it long—and almost nothing else. He wished the curtains that created the boundaries of his little "room" weren't shut; it'd be nice to see somebody, anybody. He heard footsteps only twice over what must've been two hours, and snatches of conversation only once. An Asian nurse had come in to administer morphine to the epidural, but other than that, he'd seen nobody. And it was starting to get to him.

_Really_ get to him.

He tried going to sleep, he really did. And he probably could have, too, easily, once the morphine kicked in. It wasn't like there was anything else to do, except sit here by himself and contemplate the fact that he couldn't fucking _breathe_ …

He shut his eyes, but they kept popping open again, as each time a sudden, stupid, completely irrational thought kept jolting him back awake.

_If I fall asleep, what if I don't wake up?_

Which, again, was stupid.

Completely and totally _stupid._ He'd been told to go to sleep, and they'd left him alone here, so things couldn't be that bad anymore. He obviously wasn't totally out of the woods here, but he'd woken up, hadn't he? And while Walsh had been oh-so-helpful, he thought Jodie probably would have told him if he wasn't going to be okay.

He wondered if Sam was being left to rot with shitty daytime television too. Probably not, seeing as the hospital staff would probably be thinking that they'd as good as poisoned him with the transfusion, and were trying to avoid a lawsuit. Or a dead patient. If they were, though, Dean would get up out of this stupid bed and kick their asses himself.

…Or give it a noble try, anyways.

 _Eh, Jodie's probably fussing over him right now, along with the entire female hospital staff..._ He figured he didn't need to worry too much, but just because he didn't _need to_ didn't mean he _wasn't_. Last time this had happened, Sam had been pretty much green in the face, shivering and puking a lot for two weeks straight, too wiped out to do much besides sleep.

And if the same thing happened now and Sam got himself referred to a specialist, there was no way in hell they were skipping out on it this time, even if Dean had to drag him there kicking and screaming.

But as completely on-edge as Dean felt right now, creating a sensation like acid churning in the pit of his stomach, he couldn't fight sleep for very long. Whether he liked it or not, he was completely exhausted, not to mention nauseated by the feeling of his ribs all grinding together every time the machines pumped some air into him. So eventually, he fell asleep or passed out, one way or the other…

…only to find himself no longer in the bed, but standing at the end of a long, shadowy hallway. Weirdly enough, it was a hospital hallway, but not _this_ hospital. He wasn't sure he could remember specifically where—maybe he could have remembered if he wasn't, well, asleep—but he'd definitely been here before. And somehow he knew that it wasn't a good thing, being here now. It was a very, _very_ bad thing…

He looked down at himself. All the tubes and wires and shit? Gone. He had a shirt on and everything. No mask on his face, either. And surprisingly, he felt okay. The pain was there, to be sure, but really distant and easy to ignore. _One of the perks of dreaming, I guess…_ Something was definitely not right here, but for now, he'd go with it. Besides, as he confirmed when he pinched his arm, hard, and nothing happened, it wasn't going to be easy waking himself up when he was drugged, hurt, and probably more passed out than asleep. He felt his pulse quicken as he glanced around the eerily empty hallway, but come _on_ , what pathetic idiot can't survive their own dreams?

And that was when he felt the cold. It started as a sudden, jarring, freezing gust of air slamming into his back, washing over him. He shivered, and tried to turn to see what it was, but he was paralyzed, his feet apparently rooted to the floor. He gulped.

_Ooookay, waking up would be really nice right about now…_

The cold seeped through his skin and settled in his chest, where it throbbed sickeningly. And with each throb came another, even more bizarre feeling…a bit like radio static pulsing through his veins. He looked down at his hands; they flickered in and out of existence, vanishing for a millisecond before reappearing solid as ever.

_Just like a damn ghost…_

He swallowed back bile. Maybe the shock of it was what finally un-froze him, he didn't know. But suddenly he was free, he could move again, and he was _running_. He didn't know what he was running from or where he was running to, but he was running all right. And the cold was following him.

He'd nearly reached the end of the hall—luckily, this didn't seem to be one of those freaky endless-hallway-type-deals that was pretty much standard stuff in freaky dreams—and was about to round the corner when, for no reason at all, he tripped, his entire body smacking the floor painfully. And then he was being forcibly flipped over onto his back, and when he looked up, there was this… _thing_ , hovering over him. It looked vaguely like a woman, or rather a woman's ghost, with long, stringy hair obscuring her face and shrouded in strips of transparent grayish cloth. But then he noticed the empty eye sockets, the grizzly exposed teeth, and no nose. She—it—was slowly reaching for him, almost lovingly, with impossibly long-fingered hands, as though prepared to wrap them around his throat. He scrambled backwards a little, only to be knocked flat again by a sudden surge of blinding pain from his ribs, and _then_ —

He was in a hospital bed once more. Still hooked to a billion monitors, but there was no tube in his throat, no pain, and no sign of the ghost-woman- _thing_. And there was Sam, thank God, face a little battered but otherwise fine, holding some coffee cups and leaning in the doorway. And there was Dad, similarly bruised up but perfectly okay, standing by his bed, looking a little sad and saying words Dean couldn't hear.

And then Dad was falling.

And then he was dead, sprawled out on the floor. Sam dropped the coffee; it splattered everywhere.

 _No_ , Dean tried to say. _No,no, no._

Not again.

 _Wake up,_ he thought. _God, wake up, wake UP, wake—_

He lunged forward in the bed, trying to get to Dad, knowing how this had already ended and knowing there wasn't a damn thing in the world he could do to stop it now, but that didn't stop him.

What did stop him, though, was a crushing feeling like somebody had swung a meat tenderizer at his chest, a sudden and complete inability to breathe, and then a pair of hands pushing him down. His vision blacked out.

When he opened his eyes, he could breathe again—or as much as anybody could with a tube down their throat—but pain made him lightheaded, and through the cold, dazzling brightness that met his eyes and had temporarily blinded him, he could make out the face of Dr. Walsh, bending over him and issuing sharp reprimands that Dean could barely hear or be bothered to comprehend. Stuff don't like _Don't move…aggravating the problem…almost tore the tubing out…could collapse your lung again…_ Despite that, he looked worried. Dean dimly realized that it was Walsh who must have pushed him back down. Blinking a few times and looking around him, he saw Jodie fussing with the machines, which were beep-beep- _beep_ ing like crazy. A moment later he felt a tissue blotting at his stinging eyes—also Jodie's doing.

"…And _don't_ fight the machines," Walsh was saying. "Stop trying to breathe on your own. You'll pass out."

Dean hadn't even realized he'd been doing this, but immediately complied, letting go of the air he'd been holding in. For once the mechanical _in-out-in-out_ of the machine was a relief. Everything hurt less that way.

"Good," Walsh said, one eye on the vitals monitor. "Very good. Now if you'll cooperate with us here, we were about to move you to the ICU."

Dean's eyes shifted to Jodie, hoping she'd answer the question that he couldn't ask and that Walsh probably wouldn't answer. She nodded slightly, eyes kind. "Let's get you to your brother," she said.

The supposedly "double-occupancy" room was stuffy, dimly lit, and pretty damn dreary. _Ah, the joys of lacking health insurance…_ Well, at least it beat one of those huge multi-patient rooms where five or six patients would be piled in at a time. Dean and Sam both had been stuffed into those several times over the years. The curtains of its single small window on the far wall were drawn tightly, and against the rightmost wall near the window was Sam, one arm heavily bandaged almost past the elbow with a soft cast on top and an IV in place in the other, dozing off in his bed. At the sound of Dean's bed being wheeled into the room, Sam stirred, blinking a few times before he actually saw what was going on. When he saw Dean, his face lit up.

"Dean!" he exclaimed, sitting up eagerly. "Hey!"

Dean smiled, tube sticking out of his mouth or no. Kid just looked so damn _happy_ to see him…

But— _aw, shit, Sammy_ —he looked terrible. Sick, definitely. Sweaty. Bruised-looking eyes that he was clearly having a hard time keeping open. But what worried him most was the absence of any of the red splotchiness around the cheekbones that would normally indicate that he was sick—his face had an odd grayish pallor to it, the veins there and on his arms all blue and showing up too clearly through translucent skin.

Blood loss. Nasty blood loss.

But based on the way Sam was looking at _him_ now, his grin fading and eyes widening, morphing to an expression of shocked concern, Dean assumed he must look even worse, with the tubes and the bruises and the machines and the freaking _mask…_

…Great.

He grabbed for the dry-erase board that they had finally given him and quickly wrote,

_**Hey Sammy** _

"Hey…" Sam attempted a grin but was still staring at Dean as though his guts were suddenly on the outside of his body. "Are you ok—I mean, how're you—" he spluttered.

Dean rolled his eyes.

_**I'm good.** _

Sam eyed the various machines that Walsh and Jodie were situating next to Dean's bed, now moved against the wall by Sam's own. He looked back at Dean skeptically.

 _ **Promise**_ , Dean added to the board. And of course, with _perfect_ timing, right then was when he got hit with a massive wave of exhaustion. Clearly the "sleep" he'd gotten earlier had actually been, well, just about as restful as getting chased down an empty hallway by a floating skeleton hag… He spent the next several minutes, while Walsh was explaining a few things to Sam—something about _overnight observation, we'll discuss further treatment options tomorrow if all goes smoothly—_ fighting to keep his eyes open. The pull of sleep was so completely enticing, his brain and awareness all so fuzzy around the edges, that it was getting harder and harder to remember that if he fell asleep, he might just get chased all over again…

…right into Dad's body.

Walsh and Jodie had gone by the time that sobering thought had jolted him back awake, back to the tiny room, the beeping monitors, and Sam.

"Are you tired?" Sam asked him abruptly. He looked like he had a zillion and one questions on his tongue, but he had the tact for the time being to just deal with the immediate situation and let the rest slide. Even if the immediate situation was one he didn't want to deal with.

Dean paused, and shook his head.

Sam didn't look like he was buying it, but didn't comment, and continued, "Uh, the doctor said you were asleep and then you woke up and almost hurt yourself thrashing around everywhere."

Dean made no move to confirm or deny it. Sam clearly took that as a _yes_ and frowned.

"So what happened?" Sam winced as he spoke, the fingers of his left hand absently reaching over to tug at the edges of the bandages near the crook of his right elbow. "Bad dream or something? I know morphine'll do that, but I thought they weren't giving you any of that except through the epidural thing…"

Dean stared at the ugly floral wallpaper on the opposite wall, his stomach churning.

"Dean, seriously. Are you okay?" He sounded all-out worried now.

Despite Sam's good intentions, Dean was halfway tempted to use the board to clearly communicate _fuck off_ , but his hands were shaking too badly. He had to settle for a tired _we're-not-discussing-this-right-now_ glare.

Sam glowered right back. Yup, drugs and pain usually made him grumpy, nothing new there... "Come on," he growled. "Don't be like that. Look, I've spent all day with everybody hardly telling me a damn thing about what's up with you, if you're okay. And I just want to know," he said, exasperated, "if you're okay or not. You don't have to talk—"

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"…alright, bad choice of words there," he said with a bit of a sheepish smile. "But please, _please_ , just yes or no. _Are you okay_?" He was sitting up straight now, head inclined towards Dean in anticipation.

Dean nodded slowly. Because really, what else could he do?

And it was sort of true, anyway. "Okay" was a relative term, but Sam was here now, so he'd say he was doing a hell of a lot better now than he was before. And he knew the question wasn't to assess literal okayness—which he was clearly not so much—as it was _are-you-in-immediate-danger-of-dropping-dead_ or _is-there-any-permanent-damage-I-should-know-about_ or even _are-you-okay-in-a-nonphysical-sense_.

Sam shut his eyes, shoulders sagging a bit, relief palpable in his pallid face. "Good," he said. A second later, he asked. "Okay, uh, how are you feeling, then?"

At that, Dean wanted to laugh. He just looked at Sam, incredulous, amused.

Sam rubbed at his own eyes, obviously not the only one trying to keep exhaustion at bay. "Okay, dumb question…so…You need anything?"

Dean shook his head.

 _Yeah, to get this stupid mask off so I can swallow and eat and actually_ talk _to you, for starters…and then getting the hell out of here, that'd be nice too._

But then something occurred to him that he _did_ need, and as long as he wasn't going to be able to fight sleep any longer, he was more terrified than he'd admit to himself of doing it in another sterilized, _silent_ hospital room.

He pointed at Sam, and then moved the fingers and thumb of one hand together over and over. Universal gesture for _talk_.

Sam blinked. "You want me to talk?"

Dean nodded.

He laughed a little uncomfortably. "Okay…about what?"

 _The hell if I care,_ he thought, but on a sudden inspiration, he pointed at Sam again, and then gave a one-handed thumbs-up.

"What, you wanna know if I'm okay?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded, and gestured _talk_ once more.

"Uh, yeah," he said with a shrug, but eyeing the cast on his arm distastefully. "I guess. Both forearm bones got broken and obviously it bled a lot, but I probably got off easy seeing as it was a Black Dog."

Dean pinched the thumb and index finger of one hand together as though he was holding a needle, and mimed sewing up the skin of the other arm. _What about stitches?_

Sam sighed. "Yeah, there was a lot of that…Don't remember much of it, though. Kinda nasty. There was some white stuff coming out….pretty sure that could've been, y'know, fat or something, but…" he wrinkled his nose. "Didn't ask."

Dean felt slightly ill at that. _TMI, Sammy._ Well, if there was anything that was going to keep him awake now, it was worry. He reached for the board once more.

_**And the transfusion thing?** _

Sam shrugged. "Same as last time, really. I just kind of feel like crap, is all." He sounded annoyed. "And also like last time, I don't think they're gonna let me go until they've eliminated every single possibility and then write it off as a machine defect or more likely try to cart me off to some specialist we can't afford…" he started fiddling with the bandage again. "Either way, we're looking at several days, at least. And that's just for me. They haven't even told me how long you'll be here…they were saying something about surgery, maybe?" he added anxiously.

Dean shot him another _not-now_ glare.

"Okay, okay," Sam relented. "Sorry."

Dean picked up the marker again. It was getting harder and harder to make his fingers work properly; _damn_ he was tired…

_**If they want you to go to a specialist we're going this time** _

Sam rolled his eyes. He looked mutinous, a little petulant, and all in all Dean was reminded of a five-year-old Sammy not getting his way. "Dean, come on—"

_**Putting my foot down on this I mean it** _

"Look, they were talking about contacting some doctor at Johns Hopkins University. That's all the way in _Baltimore_ , Dean."

_**Don't care** _

A couple extra tanks of gas were worth it if it meant keeping this from happening again.

Sam looked thoughtful, and then hesitated before speaking again, suddenly apprehensive. "What if this isn't something they can fix?" he asked slowly. "What if…what if it's just another weird side effect of the freaky psychic thing?"

Unconsciously, Dean bit down a little on the tube. _Shit._

_You have to save him, or you have to kill him…_

No, no, _no_.

He wasn't gonna deal with that right now. No way in hell.

He met Sam's gaze steadily, and wrote,

_**And what if it isn't** _

Sam looked away.

_**Don't be an idiot** _

And when Sam read that, and he pulled one spectacular bitchface, Dean knew he'd won, despite Sam's obvious displeasure at having his own words from the night before used against him.

"Fine," he snapped.

Dean was about to write something along the lines of _I win_ on the board, but a sudden, grinding throb from his ribs just about floored him, and he squeezed the marker hard in a fist, his eyes screwing themselves shut.

"Dean!"

Even more panic.

The beeping sped up.

Without opening his eyes, Dean gave one shaky thumbs-up and mimed _talk_ once more.

"Should I get somebody?"

Dean shook his head tightly.

_Talk._

"Uh…okay, okay. Um, well everybody's being ridiculously nice to me because they think I'm gonna sue them for this, 'cause I warned them what was gonna happen if they tried to give me a transfusion…like, uh, this one nurse, her name's Libby or Livvy or something, I don't remember, keeps trying to offer me banana pudding…" he was babbling, voice laced with anxiety, and it was abundantly clear that the talking-to-distract-somebody-from-pain thing was not something that came nearly so naturally to Sam as it did to Dean. Dean appreciated the effort anyway, and was able to relax a little bit, his back no longer arcing off the bed against that terrible grinding feeling. Didn't mean it didn't hurt like shit still, but Sam's nervous rambling provided a sort of barrier between him and the worst of it, and gave him something else to focus on.

"…And if we were anybody but, y'know, us, we probably could sue them, and win, so they're right to be freaked out…even though that Walsh guy still doesn't seem all that friendly, which is weird considering I think he's the head doctor here…He told me the police were coming to ask us some questions, and apparently we're gonna owe a trespassing fine. Hopefully Bobby won't have to pay it. Talked to him on the phone, by the way, and he'll be here as soon as he can…"

And then everything faded out into warm, inviting nothingness…

And he was suddenly thrown headlong into the empty hallway again.

…And there was the hag, a horrible smile twisting her face…

And Dean ran. He ran and ran, but she was reaching for him, she was pulling him backwards, her cold, bony arms wrapping themselves around his throat, once more almost tenderly.

He punched and kicked, but all he did was flail uselessly against her, his feet suspended off the ground.

 _You should not be here,_ breathed a dry, crackly voice into his ear, making all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. _You were meant to come with me…You know this…_ The voice sounded a bit sad, regretful rather than cruel, but no less terrifying.

He tried to gasp out a _no,_ hands scrabbling to free his throat,but he couldn't talk, he couldn't _breathe_ , he couldn't—

" _Dean_!"

A familiar voice—Sam's—jarred him, brought him back. One of his wrists was being grabbed and dragged roughly away from his throat, and held fast when he tried to reach back up.

"Dean, come on, wake _up_ —" Dean felt his wrist being squeezed almost painfully. "Snap out of it, you're okay, it's just me…"

It was only then Dean realized there was nothing choking him anymore, and he let his other hand drop, opening his eyes blearily.

He saw the hazy outline of Sam bending over him, and as his vision cleared, he saw all the terror he was feeling reflected in his brother's eyes, hair hanging in the kid's face and injured arm pressed against his chest.

Sam didn't let go of his wrist. "You need to calm down, okay?" he said firmly. "The doctors are gonna come back in if you don't."

And he tried, he did, but oh _God_ he could still feel those freezing fingers choking the life out of him…

" _Dean_." He felt his wrist being released, then a hand on his shoulder. "You're safe, okay? Whatever you saw, it can't follow you here, alright? Promise." Sam's eyes were wide, clearly searching Dean's face for some hint of understanding or acknowledgement.

Dean felt himself blinking rapidly, not realizing he'd been tearing up— _again_ , for Pete's sake—until he felt his cheeks get wet and hot. To be honest, he was too shaken to be that embarrassed when Sam used the corner of a sheet to dry his face before replacing his hand on Dean's shoulder.

And not caring that he was probably giving Sam golden blackmail material for the rest of his life—or not caring much, anyways—he reached up and found Sam's hand, holding on like his life depended on it, to assure himself that _this_ was all real—Sam, this room, even all these tubes—and that the thing after him _wasn't_.

Even if he had a stomach-turning feeling that he knew exactly what she was.

But whether he'd really had a Reaper after him that day, like Sam had told him, or not, it wasn't like she was _here_ , _now._

But somehow it wasn't that simple to convince himself of what he knew in his head to be true…

Without withdrawing his hand, Sam sat himself carefully down on the edge of Dean's bed. He said nothing for a long time, but stared at the tiled floor, chewing on his lip, looking tired, scared, and so damned _young_ …the haunted look of somebody who'd already seen too much in too few years. And while Dean hated that he was certainly contributing to the problem—hell, he'd _always_ been a part of the problem—it was all he could do to lie still and let Sam be his lifeline.

At long last, Sam turned back towards him and asked, "You wanna tell me what you saw?" _I can help_.

Dean shook his head slightly. _No, you can't._

Sam shrugged. "Okay, just thought, you know, it might help." He paused. "You know, I've been seeing weird shit too. Morphine, y'know..." he made a valiant attempt at a smile. "I saw giant bugs crawling in through the window when I first woke up, if that helps…" But by the tone of his voice, Dean knew that Sam knew it _wasn't_ going to help, and Sam didn't need Dean to tell him that what Dean had seen had been a hell of a lot worse than that. Not when Dad's death had been hanging over their heads like a stifling black cloud going on two months now.

Didn't mean he didn't appreciate the effort. He squeezed Sam's hand. _Thanks anyway._

Sam nodded. _Yeah._

To be continued.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

"Dr. Walsh is right, you know," Jodie was saying as she replaced Dean's IV pouch two days later. "Surgery really is your best option at this point. It's not going to be fun, but we'll be fixing your ribcage directly that way. You'll heal faster and you can leave faster."  
  
Dean kept his mouth shut. But he _could_ talk now if he'd wanted to, thank God, because upon hearing from Sam (and his big mouth) that Dean had had another nightmare episode, Walsh had decided that part of it was probably panic induced from having a tube shoved down his throat—and for that, Dean had to admit that he couldn't hate exactly hate the guy anymore… They'd replaced it with a different set of tubes, and these went through his nose instead of down his throat, and were secured in place by a whole bunch of straps around his head like a demented elastic helmet, so even though he was willing to bet it looked even stupider than the mask probably did and it made his sinuses achey, it meant he could eat (in theory) and speak (also in theory). The intubation had left his voice weak and wheezy and his throat completely raw and irritated, so all that came out was pathetic, squeaky, barely audible whisper when he spoke, and aside from a grape popsicle earlier today and some ice chips, he hadn't managed to brave any actual food yet.  
  
But he kept his mouth shut _now_ because he didn't exactly want to tell Jodie that the prospect of being put under for a surgery had him absolutely petrified, even if there was no real reason it should.  
  
Wasn't like anesthesia usually made a person dream. Every surgery he'd ever had had made him feel like he'd stepped through some weird time warp—awake, fast-forward, awake again.  
  
But if for some reason, he _did_ dream, or worse, if he died right there on the operating table, he knew exactly what was waiting for him. He hadn't slept a wink here without seeing her at least once, her and Dad, as if it were some sick loop he could never be free from.  
  
At this point, he knew he had no choice, really. Bobby wasn't here yet because when they'd called he'd been finishing up helping a friend out on a hunt in Idaho, but when he got here, leaving with him any time soon (or sneaking out, depending on how long it took them to come to a conclusion about Sam) wasn't going to be an option, not unless Dean could survive without machines breathing for him. They got this done, all he'd really need was a couch to crash on and lots of meds.  
   
As to Sam....he wasn't looking or feeling all that much better, which didn't surprise Dean considering last time it'd happened, but it did nothing for Dean's peace of mind. Sam kept insisting he'd be fine and bitched at Dean for the sleep he was losing over it, but insomnia was part of the being-Sam's-older-brother job description. Not like he wanted to sleep, anyway, when he knew what was lying in wait for him in his subconscious. But either way, it wasn't like sleep came easy when Sam was lying five feet away, burning up and delirious and in serious danger of throwing up all over himself, or staring up at the ceiling, gray-faced, biting down on his lip, and counting the ceiling tiles, a tactic Dean knew Sam employed when he was trying to distract himself from major pain. But it wasn't like Dean could actually  _do_ anything to help him, because that would require getting out of his own stupid bed. And the one time he'd tried to get up anyway, when Sam had hit his arm against the bedrail and ended up doubled over in pain for it, Dean had only managed to sort-of sit up and get one leg swung over the edge of the bed before he'd fallen back down, only to get chewed out by Sam for it about ten minutes straight immediately afterwards. Dean had rolled his eyes at that-- if there was one thing that could make Sam forget he was in pain that fast, it was Dean doing something supremely stupid...  
  
But as to an actual diagnosis, the doctors still had squat to tell them, and Dean was becoming increasingly sure that, as soon as he was able, he was going to have to drag Sam's ass to that specialist in Baltimore they kept mentioning. But what went unspoken between the both of them was the growing feeling that nobody in Baltimore was going to have anything to tell them either. As much as Dean hated to admit it, freaky shit happening with blood chemicals didn't seem all that incongruent next to the random psychic and telekinetic powers...hell, maybe one was somehow causing the other. But as long as Sam got better soon, Dean was content not to bring it up, especially because whether Sam said anything or not, he knew his brother was scared to death of that possibility.  
  
So in the meantime, Dean did all he could really do--watch Sam like a hawk, nag him via the wipeboard and later with his reed-thin, newly-deventilated voice to drink all the fluids and eat all the protein the nurses brought him to help replace the blood he'd lost, and use his own call button on Sam's behald enough to annoy the crap out of both Sam and the hospital staff.   
  
Jodie was talking to him again. "Really, sweetie," she went on, "You just say the word and we can get you prepped for surgery." Ugh. _Sweetie._ Yeah, Jodie had totally stopped being scared of him by now, which was good, he supposed, but _sweetie_ was a little condescending, really, even if she meant it as a nice gesture.  
  
And never mind that she was calling Sam the same thing.  
   
Dean's gaze drifted down. Now that there wasn't a mask sticking out in front of his face to obstruct his view, he could see actually see what his chest looked like--around the wires and the gauze taped to the incision site for the drainage tubes, each of his broken ribs was outlined starkly by parallel stripes of purplish red bruising. Mottled black and blue that in some places was beginning to fade into yellow and green had spread to cover the rest of his right side, particularly vivid over his sternum. _Huh, I feel like friggin' Rainbow Brite._ And as the ventilator pushed oxygen through him, he could see the wrongness of the movement there. However the rest of his chest moved, the flail segment threatened to move in exactly the opposite direction...it quivered with every breath and took just slightly longer to rise and a little longer to fall than the rest his chest around it. It was a barely noticeable difference, but he could _feel_ it....he bit back nausea   
  
"Dean," Sam said quietly from his bed. He was watching Dean, expectant. The message was clear. _You'd better tell her yes…_  
  
Dean sighed. It was a feeble, raspy sound. "Fine," he croaked. He didn't look at her. Of course, with tubes up his nose, it came out sounding more like " _fide."_  
  
Jodie smiled warmly. "Good. I'll go tell Dr. Walsh." Before she left, though, she pressed a styrofoam cup with a straw into his hand and helped him hold it while he took a few sips. He felt his face going red. _Pitiful._  
  
"She's right about this," Sam added once Jodie was gone. He was picking absently at a bland hospital dinner tray—a cut-up chicken patty and some gluey-looking macaroni and cheese—his face drawn with pain. He'd been having a rough day, fiddling with the bandages near constantly, and his fever still hadn't gone down. His hair was sticking to his forehead. Eventually he pushed the tray away and turned on his side towards Dean. "This is the best thing you can do."  
  
"I know," Dean muttered. Or, rather, _I doh._ Stupid friggin' nose tubes were almost worse.  
  
"And you're gonna be fine."  
  
"I _know_ "(I _doh_ ), he growled.  
  
Sam's brow furrowed. "Just trying to help, dude."  
  
"I kn—" Dean started, clearing his throat when no sound would come out of his parched throat. "I know. Look, 'm sorry. I know you are. I just…surgery just kinda sucks, is all," he rasped. "Okay?"  
  
"You sure that's all?"  
  
"Yeah." _No, but you better drop it._  
  
Sam got the message. "Okay," Sam said carefully. "But you _are_ gonna be fine." He sounded like he was saying it as much for Dean's benefit as for his own.  
  
Dean mustered what must've been only the faintest ghost of a cocky smile. "Course I will."  
  
Sam tried to smile back, rubbing at his arm once more.  
  
"You should get some sleep," Dean told him.  
  
"Don't wanna be asleep before they prep you and take you in for surgery," Sam said, shaking his head. "I can wait that long."  
  
Dean grinned. "Thanks."  
  
Sam nodded. "Yeah, no problem."  
  
"Well at least _pretend_ to be asleep," Dean drawled after a moment. "so that when Libby comes to get your tray I'll have her all to myself. I don't stand a chance with you around. All she does is stare at you with those big sad eyes of hers."  
  
Sam snorted. "Dean, you don't stand much of a chance with _you_ around." He tapped his nose.  
  
Dean scowled. "Low blow, dude."  
  
Sam shrugged. "Sorry, Dean, but you kinda look like an elephant. Biggest cockblock ever, no offense."  
  
"Oh, I see how it is. Make fun of the invalid, why don't you. Real nice, Sammy."  
  
"Well it's true."  
  
"Bitch."  
  
"And her name's Livvy."  
  
***  
  
Sam made good on his word to stay awake until Dean left for surgery, even though it was clearly an ordeal just to keep his eyes open at that point. But when his bed was being wheeled out of the room, Sam was wide awake, all smiles and _you'll-be-fine_ and confidence.  
But Sam had always been a bad liar, at least when it came to lying to his big brother. Dean knew Sam was almost as nervous as he himself felt.  
  
By the time he'd been moved to a way-too-bright, chrome-surfaced room to meet with an annoyingly cheerful anesthesiologist, his mind had begun to calculate all the ways he could possibly punch said anesthesiologist's lights out along with a few nurses, get up out of this bed, and make a break for the door.  
  
…There weren't that many.  
  
So he had no choice but let them do whatever it was they were going to do—he only had a vague idea, but it didn't exactly sound pretty. He was pretty sure it had to do with metal clamps or plates or something like that. _Sure hope you're right about this, Sammy,_ was his last thought before he was under, blinking hazily at the harsh light of the lamp above his head.  
  
And then…  
  
Blissfully, nothing.  
  
 _She_ wasn't coming for him.  
  
As clichéd as it sounded, all he could remember after what felt like a nap of only a few minutes was a vague sensation of floating. As his consciousness began to resurface, as things slowly came back to him—a soft, constant hum of voices, more bright lights behind his shuttered eyes, a deep-set ache in his chest, the lingering smells of disinfectant and anesthesia fumes, and an overall feeling of heaviness and dullness, as if his head and his limbs were full of rocks and moving an inch would cost him a far greater effort than he was willing to give—he realized that she was still there. But then, only on the barest fringes of his awareness, easily ignored.  
  
Inexplicably, he found he was safe.  
  
That didn't stop him from panicking, just a little, when he fully awoke to find himself alone in the stark and sterile recovery room, with only the beep-beep- _beeps_ of a machine—one whose sound he didn't quite recognize, it must be new— to keep him company. He saw a few people, all in scrubs, walk past the open door, but they looked more like multicolored blurs to his tunneled, bleary range of vision. And then came the pain again, its steady _boom-boom-boom_ making him sort of nauseous. His eyes watered, and he reached up to swipe the back of his hand across them. And that's when he realized—  
  
No facemask.  
  
No tubes, either, except what felt like just the thin, standard type that ran across his face just under his nose.  
  
And that was good, but—  
  
He was alone.  
  
And he couldn't be alone, not here…  
  
He tried to say something, call for someone, but all that came out was a garbled, incoherent moan.  
  
Hell, he couldn't even remember what he was _doing_ here. He needed to find somebody, stat.  
  
Or she'd come back.  
  
And Dad would be dead on the floor.  
  
"Hey," he managed this time, clearing his dry, scratchy throat. "Hey, 's anybody th—"  
  
A noise like squeaky wheels and a slight grunt came from somewhere to his right, and a dark shape hovering somewhere in his right peripheral vision shifted and moved closer to him. Turning his head to the right an inch or so, he saw it was Sam. In a wheelchair, right arm in a sling, an IV hanging from a pole next to him, he looked completely drained, but eager nonetheless. He'd used one arm to shift himself closer to Dean's bed. He smiled. "Hey, Dean."  
  
Dean blinked, confused. "Hey, S'mmy…'s goin' on?"  
  
"Surgery was a success, dude. I talked to the doctor, and you should be fine. Told you."  
  
Oh.  
   
Right.  
  
Surgery.  
  
"Oh yeah…" he said lamely, stifling a yawn that was bound to hurt. "Uh…good. 'S good. So h-how're you doin'? Should be in bed, r-righ'?" All his words were slurring and running together, both in his head and on his tongue.  
  
"I'm okay." Sam shook his head, looking amused. "Maybe you should go back to sleep, Dean."  


"Nuh-uh," Dean protested weakly, trying to prop himself up one elbow only to be pushed back down by Sam. "'M not t-tired."  
  
"Sure you aren't."

Smartass. "Lemme up." Because he _wasn't_ tired, just a little fuzzy around the edges. And who needed sleep when he could finally _breathe_ again?

"Just slow down, okay? Whatever it is can wait. Go back to sleep, and Bobby'll come in to see you when you wake up. No rush."  
"No," he insisted, because he'd finally thought of a good reason to stay awake. A damn good reason.  
Or so it seemed at the time.

Sam chuckled. "Why not?"

"Pudding," he said simply.

"What?"

"Tell Livvy…she d-damn well feel bad enough f-for me to give _me_ some friggin' banana pudding, 'kay?"  
"You're kidding," he laughed.

" _No_ ," Dean insisted. "Don' look like an elephant anymore, an' now she's got no excuse….Don' care if it tastes like shit…"  
"Okay, okay," Sam said, but he pulled a blanket up with one hand over Dean's now heavily bandaged chest.

"'M serious, S'mmy…" And he was. No way was Sam going to beat him to the punch with the only hot nurse in the entire freaking hospital because of his stupid sad puppy eyes.

"I bet you are."

"An' you tell her…'m not goin' to sleep 'till she does. Tell her."

"I will."

His eyes drifted shut. "I mean it," he mumbled. "You tell her."

A hand patted his knee. "Sure, Dean."

*End*

   



End file.
